No More
by ProfessorScrooge
Summary: Harry Potter is tired, practically defeated, and backed into a corner. His friends and allies are dead, and the war is all but lost. So, he pursues a final act with a simple statement: "No More." Inspired by Dr Who 50th Anniversary and V for Vendetta. OOC, Dystopic Deathly Hallows AU, One-Shot.


**A/N: Okay so I'm a Whovian on top of other things, and I had thoughts about the 50** **th** **Anniversary special. 'No More,' a man tired of war. And it perhaps merged with a few other ideas hanging around my brain and ended up ripping a lot of V for Vendetta off (which is one of my favourite films). This is the end result, which I'm still not exactly happy with even after a dozen revisions, but I can't devote any more time to it (I'm busy enough as is), so enjoy I guess.**

 **Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING, property of respective owners etc.**

No More

It was early in the morning when the first of shopkeepers started to go about their business, readying their stores for people to arrive all across Britain. However, in Diagon Alley, the people stopped and stared at the ancient stone flags of the road. Or, more accurately, at what had changed since the day before, and indeed all the days before then back to when the stones were laid and enchanted to be protected against wear and tear.

In all who looked upon it, a shiver was felt. Of foreboding perhaps.

A similar scene was beginning across London at the site of the Ministry of Magic. This old building as well had known few changes over the years, apart from smaller ones like the statue declaring 'Magic is might' that had stood the day before. In its place now were the same letters, cracked into the floor and glowing with a sickly green light, of a particularly distinctive shade.

Those arriving for work that day simply stopped to stare as they entered the atrium, quickly causing a mob of people to grow. When the minister finally arrived to view the cause for consternation, irrational fear shivered its way up his spine.

Far to the North, in the highlands of Scotland, within a castle more ancient than records remembered, a man stood in his traditional black garb, his greasy hair he was so famed for jostling in the wind as he stared down at the courtyard. The scene would not look so eerie, he considered, if it were not for the fact that the letters seemed to have been broken up from beneath, and the green glow that was exuded from the cracks in the stone brick floor.

The headmaster gave a final long stare at the two words before twisting around to stalk off. The Dark Lord needed to be informed of this.

###########################################################################################

"Meeting of the Ministry for Magic Department heads, November fourth, eleven fifteen AM. Let the record state those in attendance are Minister Thicknesse, Madame Dolores Umbridge-."

"I think we can skip past the formalities," interrupted a stern faced man in the blue garb of an Unspeakable.

"Indeed," agreed the man at the head of the table, "have you made any progress determining the nature of the message?"

"No, Minister, we cannot identify what spell was used to make it, nor how to remove the words," replied the Unspeakable.

"What about what it actually means?" spoke up another man, "it's quite a distinctive message: …"

###########################################################################################

"No More?" stated the man who was not a man. His skin pale, features serpentine, and eyes as red as blood and hate. "Those exact words?"

"Yes my Lord," a man in a mask replied dutifully.

"The same in all three locations?"

"Exactly the same my Lord."

"And what do we know about them?"

"The ministry can neither determine how the message was placed, nor who did it-."

"It's obvious who did it," the man interrupted, pausing in his pacing to look at his gathered minions. "The _boy_. We have torn from him his friends and his hope," he looked up at the naked and bloody, ginger haired corpse hanging from the ceiling. A smile threatened to tug at his sallow skin at the sight, as it did every time he looked at the teen's body. "He knows it is time for the end game, it is only a matter of time before he comes to us."

###########################################################################################

The streets around Diagon were deeply overcast in shadow as the moon hung high in the sky, and barely a soul braved the night. That is, until the faint sound of music was caught straining at the ears of those abed. If anyone were to be paying attention, they would have noticed it began the moment the clock struck twelve.

As chords grew in strength, easily being audible as the crashing bellow of brass filled the air, windows flew open and people walked outside into the streets, staring around in incredulity as the notes filled the air. A few of the more cultured listeners even recognised the famous music from 1812.

All the listeners' expressions changed as the crescendo was reached. The sound of explosions and huge pillars of flame filled the air above the section known as Knockturn Alley. Jaws dropped as the area was wiped off the map, the blasts and booms as loud and evident as the rising flames, though they never touched Diagon itself. The music continued as fireworks soared above the flames, exploding in bursts of light and finally forming a distinctive shape.

A lightning bolt.

###########################################################################################

"How did this happen!" roared the Dark Lord, "no boy could achieve this!"

"The residue of the explosion was found to be from a mix of potions reacting. The resulting effects powered the blast. All of the potions were simply brewed with easy ingredients a first year could get their hands on," a man named Rookwood stated, his blue robes of the Unspeakable still on. "It was a simple potions mishap, easy to create, just on a large scale."

"I want Potter found, and I want him now."

###########################################################################################

At 7pm, sharp, every radio in every wizarding household crackled and sparked to life of its own accord. In every home, people gathered around it in confusement and curiosity. And when a cultured voice started speaking, they all listened.

"Good evening, Britain. Firstly I would like to apologise for this interruption. I do, like many of you, appreciate the comfort of everyday routine, the security of the familiar, the tranquillity of repetition. I enjoy them as much as any bloke. But in the spirit of commemoration, whereupon important events of the past, usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, are celebrated with a nice holiday, I thought we could mark this November the 5th, a day that is sadly no longer remembered, by taking some time out of our daily lives to sit down and have a little chat. There are, of course, those who do not want us to speak. I suspect even now, orders are being shouted at underlings, and Death Eaters will soon be on their way. Why? Because while the wand may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression, and persecution are the order of the day. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have fear coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well, certainly, there are those who are more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable. But again, truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, the impending possibility of death were you to speak out. It was easier to believe everything was fine. They were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you allowed this state of being to arise, and allowed Voldemort to return. You let him in, you let him control you in exchange for your lives and your silence. Last night, I sought to end that silence. Last night, I destroyed Knockturn Alley to remind this country of what it has forgotten. More than four hundred years ago, a great citizen wished to embed the fifth of November forever in our memory. His hope was to remind the world that fairness, justice, and freedom are more than words, they are perspectives. So if you've seen nothing, if the crimes of this government remain unknown to you, then I would suggest that you allow the fifth of November to pass unmarked. But if you see what I see, if you feel as I feel, and if you would seek as I seek, then I ask you to stand beside me, one year from tonight, outside the Ministry of Magic, and together we shall give them a fifth of November that shall never, ever be forgot."

As radios fell silent, turning themselves off once more, people looked to each other in consideration. And thoughts began to grow.

###########################################################################################

"How was it possible? Every person just heard him and he is running rings around us," the Dark Lord vented his anger as he paced, his wand tightly gripped. Most everyone in the room sweated in fear of the cruciatus curse he was liable to use on any that displeased him. "I want Potter dead!"

"M-my Lord?" started a Death Eater, immediately cringing as the dreaded Dark Lord whirled on him, anger showing in his eyes. "We are not certain it is Potter, my Lord. We only have the one photo and the mask…"

"I don't care. Find him!"

###########################################################################################

The November the 6th edition of the Daily Prophet was tentatively anticipated in every household. The events of the past day had been so far out of the norm.

As expectant hands grabbed the paper, the moving photo on the front page was highly attention grabbing. A man was depicted, in a long black trench coat enshrouding most of his form from heavy boots to the hood on his head. His face was obscured by a simple white mask, androgynous and entirely obscuring his facial features. Only one distinctive mark could be seen; a single black lightning bolt on the forehead of the mask.

The following article by Rita Skeeter of course told the story of a violent maniac who attacked the broadcaster's, and was responsible for acts of terrorism. Made clear was the fact that the Ministry would offer a handsome reward for capture or information regarding the individual named only as Undesirable Number One.

###########################################################################################

"How are we going to deal with this?" the minister stated as he looked concernedly down at the body upon the floor.

"Well we obviously can't tell the public the truth," replied the man with long, blond hair, who skirted at the edge of the room, avoiding the mess of the woman's choked-up innards. "A heart attack? No, too violent. A stroke, perhaps? And a moving obituary."

"I'll see that it happens," his companion confirmed. "What shall we tell the Dark Lord?"

"The truth, I would advise you not dare do anything else my dear Pius," the other man drawled, staring contemplatively at the sickly green, glowing lightning bolt carved into the bathroom wall.

###########################################################################################

There was little public sympathy to the obituary of the 'Legendary Reporter,' not least due to the fact that she had made a great deal of enemies in her tenure. Of course, what also spread was the rumour that it was not a stroke that laid the bitch low. Although few dared speak of such things for long.

###########################################################################################

The sixth of December, a Friday as it happened, began as any other might for the students of Hogwarts. From the intrepid few who rose from rest early to get a quick shower and breakfast so as to study more, to those who waited until the last second to get into breakfast. It was only when the Great Hall was almost entirely filled that a shadow clinging to the ceiling disappeared.

It was a few moments before a girl from Gryffindor noticed what hung above the staff table, giving a scream of fright.

Her pointing quickly drew more stares, and more shrieks as all laid eyes upon the corpse nailed to the wall in his customary dark robes now stained in crimson, rolled up on the sleeve to display the dark shape of an infamous tattoo.

And the lightning bolt carved into the ancient stone bricks above, shining the colour of emeralds.

###########################################################################################

There was little spinning capable of the events of the sixth. Of course, the _Prophet_ claimed the death of Hogwarts' headmaster was a potions accident, but few believed it when first heard, after all the man had been a potions master.

And despite the best efforts of those who would censor it, information still leaked from the captive students of the castle by owl or other method, and the truth got out.

The reward for the capture or death of the 'Masked Terrorist' grew three sizes that day.

###########################################################################################

January the sixth was the date upon which the majority of the ministerial staff returned from their brief holiday. It was with grim drudgery they returned to the ministry, filing into the atrium to socialise briefly before work and to register their arrival.

It was exactly five minutes before the hour upon which they were supposed to begin work, that a shadowy glamour dropped. The shocked gasps, and prodding of colleagues to show each other the point of interest spread across the hall, and eyes turned to the large poster above the main elevator area.

Crucified onto the picture of the ministry's new logo was a chubby woman, dressed all in pink wool, marred by the bodily fluids down her front. The fabric of her sleeve was rolled up, and the twisting tattoo visible to all, even from that height.

The lightning bolt above glittered almost triumphantly.

###########################################################################################

The year continued, and so did the work of the masked man. On the sixth day of every month, a body was found, most all high profile persons, normally in a public space.

And the whispers grew.

Where once people would never dare speak, through fear, they now began to, as hope blossomed. And whispers turned to something more…

###########################################################################################

"How many?!" the tall spectre roared as he paced furiously.

"Every wizarding household in Britain, my Lord," a man ventured. The Dark Lord ceased his pacing only to fling an explosive curse at the table upon which rested a dozen or so familiar masks.

"I want anyone caught wearing one of those masks dead."

###########################################################################################

"I'm not so sure, I mean how do you know it's Potter?" whispered one man to another as four of them sat around a table within the Leaky Cauldron.

"It's gotta be mate, who else would have the whole scar thing going on," replied his colleague before taking a sip of his drink.

"I 'eard Potter was dead, and this guy is trying to avenge 'im or summat," added the third man.

"Could be, anyone could be behind that mask," replied the first man knowingly.

"Who else is gonna get on up and challenge you-know-who, eh?" argued the second. "What about you, Bob? What'chu think?" he directed at the quiet fourth man, who gave a sigh before putting his drink down.

"I think that I don't understand why 'e'd be doing it if it is Potter," he eventually said. "I mean, look at all the kid's gone through, and the public's never been kind to 'im with Skeeter and that lot, and _we_ all believed it. Why would 'e care about us? If I were 'im, I'd be long gone by now."

"True, but you're forgetting something," the second man replied, "with all he's been through; don't you think he wants revenge? His parents, his friends, hell you remember the photos of what happened to his little girlfriend," there was a collective shiver among them at the thought of the unfortunate muggleborn. "If you were him, wouldn't you want some kind of justice?"

###########################################################################################

What began slowly, in whispered conversations at the back of bars, grew, and grew as slowly people stood up. The spark of discontent had caught, growing to a blaze of anarchy.

The aurors tried to stop them of course, and the Death Eaters if they were particularly unlucky, but still it continued. For every man arrested, another two went on to continue their work. For every piece of graffiti scrubbed away, three more distinctive lightning bolts found their way onto public property.

Of course, it was only a matter of time before things escalated...

###########################################################################################

The plumes of black smoke appearing caused the young girl to turn tail and run for it, her wand barely held low in her grasp, dirty blond hair flowing out behind her white mask.

When the green curse hit her, the momentum of her body caused an almost leap-like motion, before she lay face down on the cobbled stones of the street. Unmoving.

The pair of men in black cloaks and silver masks shaped like skulls looked down at her small form carefully, suddenly aware of the gazes of watchers.

They turned, looking all around as people began to move with single minded purpose, emerging from houses alongside the road, and all stalking towards the pair of men. The pair held up their wands threateningly, but it did nothing to halt the charge, dozens of wands being raised in return.

###########################################################################################

" _Rioters were arrested yesterday in Hogsmeade, the Minister made a call for…"_

###########################################################################################

The air in the large library was musty, the old tomes being fraught with dust. The blond man strolled through them, drink in hand, pursuing a specific book from his collection. He did not expect to round a corner and suddenly feel a pressure at his throat.

"Hello Mister Malfoy," a voice sounded from behind the emotionless white mask, as its wearer pressed a silvery knife-blade to the pureblood's neck. "Ah, ah, ah," he continued as the man automatically reached for his wand, "you know I'll slit your throat long before you'd be able to get a spell off."

"Tell me, is that you Potter? Underneath all this getup?" the man inquired seemingly calmly, with his customary sneer.

"I would have thought a man as smart as you would understand the futility in asking a masked man who he is," came the cultured reply, "of course a man as smart as you understands what is going on, a man as smart as you knows why I am here. You were one of the first Death Eaters, you've financed and controlled a majority of the workings, and you've sat in the Inner Circle since day one. And you know secrets, secrets which _he_ doesn't want getting out. You control all too much of this world, from the Minister to his finances. A man as smart as you knows _he_ has a plan to remove you, and the current situation is making him want to use it. It's only a matter of time before it's you or him, and be honest; don't you wish to return to the days after his first defeat? When you luxuriated amongst the cream of the land."

"What do you want?" Lucius demanded tersely, making it obvious he had struck a nerve.

"I want him, and in exchange you'll get me, the terrorist you've failed to capture for all these months," came the smooth reply. "When you're ready to accept, mark an 'X' on your door," a hand placed a piece of white chalk upon a table before the figure disappeared into the shadows of the library.

###########################################################################################

"Every day," muttered the Dark Lord, his anger barely contained, "every day that man is alive is a failure." He straightened, staring hard at the members of his inner circle, "Three hundred and twenty seven days! Three hundred and twenty seven failures!" he bellowed, his rage cracking through.

"My Lord, we have inadequate-," Lucius was quickly cut off;

"We are drowning underthe avalanche of your inadequacies, Lucius! Crucio!"

###########################################################################################

That day, for any who cared to look, a mark was to be seen upon the front door of Malfoy Manor. Only two men knew what it meant, however.

###########################################################################################

"Station men in and around the ministry, we will _not_ let this happen. If anyone turns up, they die."

"My Lord, we have to consider that he may be able to-argh," the Dark Lord held the man who had spoken under the cruciatus curse for at least half a minute.

"He won't," he growled out, "there is no way in or out of that building save the floo, which are held by our people."

###########################################################################################

November the fourth was a cold night, and the air was crisp with the promise of morning frost. All throughout Britain, radios crackled with the stern voice of the Minister, but the words went unheard in the empty houses and bars, a school devoid of pupils or staff, and shops closed and silent.

###########################################################################################

"This is the place," the scruffy man stated, "it's clear, he's not down there."

"Good work, Scabior, keep your men close," replied the long haired man, immaculate in his dress sense as he swept down the steps to the concrete area, wrinkling his nose at the ugly muggle construction. The snatchers and mercenaries under his payroll fanned out before him in the darkness, wands lit for illumination. Even with the light spells, it was several moments after he appeared that the masked figure was noticed.

Immediately, a dozen wands were trained on him, his head slightly bowed to just allow the scar symbol on the forehead of his mask to be seen.

"Mr Malfoy, how pleasant to see you," emerged the cultured voice recognisable to all from his broadcast almost exactly a year previous. "I trust you have not reneged on our deal?"

"Bring him out," the aristocrat threw over his shoulder after a moment.

Two men swiftly emerged from the darkness, dragging a black shape between them. Once they reached Malfoy, the blond man pulled off the fabric to reveal the bloodied, demon-like man in all his glory. Bound in silvery chains that glittered with runes damping his powers.

"Ah, hello Tom," stated the masked man, almost fondly. "I trust you have the rest?" Malfoy waved his hand in response, one of his men taking that as orders to upend a bag from which fell a golden goblet, a silver diadem, a bronze locket, and the large head of a snake, all blackened and burnt nearly beyond recognition.

"Don't do this Lucius!" demanded the Dark Lord, his voice hoarse.

"Oh shut up you filthy half blood," said man stated derisively, before a green spell ejected from his wand, making the Dark Lord slump to the ground as a corpse. "He's dead, properly this time, so it's time for you to take off your mask."

"No," the man replied.

"Defiant to the end, eh?" he sneered back, "but you won't beg like him, no. You're not afraid of death, you're like me."

"The only similarity between you and me, Mr Malfoy, is we're both about to die."

"And how do you imagine that's going to happen?"

"With my hands around your neck."

"You're outnumbered, _Potter_ , and we have our wands, rather than your muggle tricks and silly knives," he waved dismissively at the man.

"No, what you have are spells, and the hope, that once you've finished your words, that I am no longer standing, because if I am….you'll all be dead before you can cast another," came the calm reply.

"Avada Kedavra," yelled Lucius, swiftly followed by his men, the dozen or so green jets of light hitting the man squarely in the chest and forcing him back, dropping to one knee.

Various men stepped back a little in fear as he lifted his head to stare back at them.

"My turn," he rasped out, just above a whisper, before he flew into action. Like a spectre he moved with a speed they could not even see, and the cracks like thunder as each man fell to the ground with a hole in his forehead echoed in the tunnels.

"Die, die! Why won't you die!" mumbled Lucius as he backed up, firing dark curse after dark curse at the man, each of which should have killed him in some hideous way or another. He kept walking however, stopping only when he reached the Malfoy patriarch, and calmly reaching over to snap his wand.

"Beneath this mask," said a quiet voice, "there is more than flesh, there is an _idea_. And ideas, Mr Malfoy, are invincible."

The pureblood aristocrat felt hands close around his neck as he was lifted up and slammed against a wall. His body shook, and his legs flailed as the air was kept from his lungs. In his last moments, he stared down at the emotionless mask and felt true fear.

###########################################################################################

The Ministry Atrium was a large space, which had seen many things it had never before in the last year. What was within now were dozens and dozens of men in uniform, of aurors and unspeakables and hit-wizards alike. All gathered where a fountain had once stood, manning small barricades far from where the main tunnel of floos stood.

The head auror stood with an unspeakable at the very rear, in a position where he could see the entire hall. All around him, wands were raised as the floos flared into life as green flames let through men and women dressed in black, accentuated by the white masks covering their faces. Dozens upon dozens of men and women walked out of the fireplaces, and began a march in step towards the barricades.

"There's no response from the head of department," said the Unspeakable to his fellow, "or from the Minister, or from the _Dark Lord_." The latter part was added in a hiss. The auror said nothing as the people swarmed forward, and breaths were held as they approached the barricade and simply stepped over it.

The group just brushed past every man they had, not fighting or even acknowledging them, just moving past to the centre of the atrium from which the offices of the building could be seen expanding from in front to far above where they touched the high ceiling. And here they stopped, inclining their heads upwards expectantly, staring at the dozens of office windows expanding upwards.

It began slowly, early chords that ears trained to hear before it grew into tantalising strength before the crescendo. The moment the peak was reached was when the first rumble was felt, from beneath the feet of the onlookers. It moved on and up and the first floor of offices in front of them exploded in a hail of fire that was seemingly kept from them by an invisible barrier. Each floor above subsequently exploded as well on each high note, in a finer accompaniment to Tchaikovsky's masterpiece than had ever been heard.

In a wave, the sea of black cloaked people swept off the masks, revealing the visages of man, woman and child, human and non-human, all solemn faced yet smiling as the old world destructed in front of them.

And the new one began.

 **A/N: Don't think I did this very well, but then again I'm not the greatest of writers. Anyway, enjoy, leave a review if you're feeling nice (I really do appreciate them) and for those watching my other stories, I will (hopefully!) be getting round to a TSAE update soon. And there may be a few other things popping up here and there, if I decide they're worth posting.  
**


End file.
